


Pitch Black

by temporalDecay



Series: distrait shorts [8]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Clothed Sex, Fingerfucking, Gills, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:38:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Equius Zahhak tries and fails to control his possessive nature, and Eridan enjoys the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pitch Black

**Author's Note:**

> Set about ten sweeps after [_Breathe In_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/741936), around the same time _Completely Uneven Gaits_ takes place.

When you reach out for him, you’re not fully aware of what you’re doing. You’re in control of yourself, by the time you slam him into the nearest wall, though, which is a good thing because otherwise you might have pulverized his spine by then. Instead you wallow in the satisfying sound of his back crashing into the metal paneling, not for the first time cursing your strength for robbing you of the violence you’d love to indulge in, at times like these. 

“The fuck is your—“ 

You raise him up, acutely aware of what little he weighs in your grip. One look is all it takes, to have your gut churning in something very close to anger, as the wound down his chin is still fresh enough. It will scar, you think, and the baser side of your pan, which you so dutifully ignore most of the time, recoils with more outrage. You clench your fist on his jacket, feeling the fabric rip as you slide your mouth into his, resolutely refusing to listen to any complaints. His clothes are soon ruined, but it doesn’t matter by then, because he’s clinging to you with arms and legs and lips, and you want to drown in the sensations nearly as much as you want to vocalize your rage. 

“That’s hot,” he says, with that same carelessness that drives you up a wall all the time, when you break the kiss because your airsacks burn too much. He licks his lips and there’s blood in them, just like there’s blood in your mouth, from where your cracked teeth sliced his lip and his tongue open and further upset his wound. That’s how angry you are about this, how _fucking furious_ this all made you: You broke your teeth over it. “I’ve—“ 

“Shut up,” you snarl, pressing him harder into the wall, until his body doesn’t have enough space to even fall and his limbs are wrapped around you like vines. “We will have words, Captor, about this,” you hiss out loud enough he couldn’t not hear it. Of course he does, you designed half of him, you know exactly what he can do. “ _He’s not yours_.” 

He’s not. Most of trollkind qualifies as Captor’s plaything, and you know it. You wrote the blueprints for the monstrosity he is. But Eridan is _your kismesis_ , the flickering black flame that keeps you on your toes and continuously upends your worldview when you’re least expecting it. Captor doesn’t get to touch your kismesis, much less _brand_ him. The cut will scar, acting as a reminder that this unfortunate incident happened at all. 

“But I’m yours?” You growl in the back of your throat as Eridan shifts the way his weight hangs off yours, arms tightening around your shoulders. “Don’t suppose I get a fucking say in that?” 

You lean most of your weight on him, pinning him a good two feet off the ground. Given the way he’s hooked his legs around your waist and against your thighs, you don’t think he really minds. Nonetheless, you reply because he’s your kismesis, and not raising to the bait defeats the purpose of the entire thing. 

“So,” you growl, looking at him over the rim of your sunglasses and physically resisting the urge to just tear off the rest of his clothes. You’re angry and desperate and not really sure what sex could accomplish at the moment, but the adrenaline delivering your fury to every inch of your body is also keen on something other than violence. “ _Say_ something.” 

“You’re a despicable piece of shit,” Eridan replies, smiling against your mouth as he brushes his lips on yours. “And you should do the enraged possessiveness more often.” You bare your teeth at him and all it does is make him laugh, the sound coiling down your spine and your limbs, testing your self-control. “’s hot.” 

“You—“ The words get lost into a low groan, as he digs his teeth into your neck, barely scratching the skin. 

“C’mon,” he adds, using your shoulders and the wall for leverage to roll his hips against yours, and you’ve never wanted to get rid of your clothes faster. “Can’t start with that performance if you ain’t gonna deliver. Back up that possessiveness, Eq.” 

When you shove your hand into his pants, the sound he makes fills you up with a warm, heady satisfaction. He’s wet against your fingers, bulge straining to coil around your wrist, and he keens when you slide the tip of a finger into him. You hate the way he turns pliant and willing under your touch, because it somehow feels like a taunt, like he’s indulging you. You crook your fingers inside him, just for the sake of hearing him burying the moan into your neck. You hate the way he smirks and laughs and talks and carries himself, but above all, you hate the way he makes you _want_ him. You press another finger into him, and he arches into the wall, wiggling to try and get the remnants of his clothes out of the way. When he reaches for the fly of your pants, you shift him higher, easily, and his whine of frustration rolls in your ears like a victory. 

He could have _died_. 

The thought paces the length of your mind, like a beast caged inside your skull, and is made worse by the fact you can’t deny how much it’d _anger_ you if he died. You’re not done with him. You will not be done with him until you’ve hammered away all the rough edges and polished his ridiculousness into something suitable. He’s not allowed to die until you’re done with him, and you and Captor will have _words_ , about this, yes. Uncouth words, perhaps, but necessary, because no one else is allowed to hurt him but you. That you choose not to hurt him doesn’t negate the fact. Captor doesn’t hate him the way you do. He doesn’t understand all the thousand hateful things there are to hate about him, and he doesn’t care to try and fix each and every one of them. Captor would hurt him for the sake of hurting him, because that’s what he does, and you might be a hypocrite for it, but you don’t care if that’s how he treats everyone else, he’s not _allowed_ to treat your quadrantmates like that. 

Despite your disorganized thoughts and the jerky movements of your hand, you’re hyper aware of it as you slide your fingers in and out of him. It’s not what he wants, and you know it. The way he keeps canting his hips against you and digging his claws into your back, it’s all a way to try and get you to cut the chase and fuck him up against the wall. In truth you aren’t all that adverse to the idea. But you’re _angry_ , and each second is slowly convincing you that you’re as angry at him as you are at Captor. Because Captor is a jerk, granted, but surely Eridan provoked him. Of course he did. Provoking people he shouldn’t is all Eridan knows how to do. You slide a third finger into him and splay them open, testing the resistance of his walls and feeling him leak like a base, wanton thing onto your hand. Absently, you appreciate the fact you never bothered to keep claws, like most trolls do, since they get in the way of your more delicate, mechanic work. It also means you can press against the delicate flesh and not risk tearing him open, inside out. Eridan manages to tear the skin of your back, then, and you can feel the blood soaking into your clothes, ruining them further. You retaliate by shifting your hold of him again, unbalancing him and taking away all leverage except the wall, and by pressing your thumb mercilessly hard against the base of his bulge. 

“You fucking—“ 

“ _Language_ ,” you hiss, viciously and unrepentantly smug, before pressing your tongue to one of the gills on his neck. 

You’ve long since learned that his gills will always be his undoing. You’re always hesitant to abuse the knowledge, because his reactions to it are always extreme and it strikes you as underhanded. But you’re _angry_ at him, and his recklessness and his little regard for his own life, so underhanded is what he deserves. He goes deadly still as you mouth his neck and then limp when your tongue starts to press insistently into the flap of skin. Then it gives, abruptly, and his entire body is wrecked by a shudder as a startled cry echoes in the room. Then he dissolves in your arms, frame shaking as genetic material makes a mess of your legs. You didn’t exactly think this through, you suppose, but you decide that he’s earned being degraded like that. You also conveniently choose to ignore the fact that he relishes in all that kind of degrading thing, and that you hate that part of him, as well. 

When you let him go, he slides bonelessly down the wall, into the puddle of slurry on the floor, panting heavily and glaring defiantly up at you. 

“You’re an asshole, Zahhak,” he snarls, in between gasping breaths, “an utter fucking hateful _shitstain_.” 

You study his form, slumped carelessly on the ground; the torn rags of what’s left of his clothes and the slight bruises where your hands held him and the splatters of violet _everywhere_. A traitorous part of your mind thinks he’d look much better in blue, but you refuse to indulge that thought just as you refuse to admit how much you want him, even like this, or how much you envy him his position. 

“Am I?” You ask idly, stepping back until you find your chair. You sit down as casually as you know how, a hint of a sneer tugging at your lips. “Then perhaps you ought to do something about it.” 

Eridan makes a low, angry sound in the back of his throat, and then crawls after you, tracking slurry everywhere. You should really be a lot more concerned about that, than you are, but all you can think of is how predatory he moves, even looking as he does. 

“Perhaps you ought to tell me what I should do,” he snarls, settling in between your legs, on his knees. Something inside you _throbs_ at the sight, something uncouth and terrible that you refuse to acknowledge but crave all the same. “Since this isn’t about me.” 

You reach a hand for his head, fingers digging into his hair as you raise him up to meet you half way, snarling at his face. 

“This is _always_ about you,” you growl, and despite it all he shivers and shakes, and you fucking _hate_ him, because he wants this nearly as much as you do, and he’s shameless enough to not feel terrible about it. 

“Is it, now?” His eyes are dark, and when he looks at you like that, you always swear, for a fleeting moment, that he’s truly one of his caste. But then he’ll invariably ruin it, by either smirking or talking or reminding you he’s mostly naked and covered in his own crusting genetic material. “Well, then don’t mind if I just retaliate, then.” 

He drags your pants off your hips, letting you feel his claws raking down your thighs as he does. You know exactly what he’s going to do – of course you do, because it has never stopped making you uncomfortable and confused and desperate, and he knows it and has never seen fit not to use that knowledge to his advantage – but you still shiver when his tongue touches the base of your bulge. His mouth on you feels amazing, a knot of troubled pleasure gathering in your gut, but the knowledge of what’s causing such sensations and the sight of him, they never cease to make you squirm and tense. A tiny, hysterical corner of your pan points out that it looks like you will get your wish to see him drenched in blue after all. You ignore it and tilt your head back, focusing on your breathing and trying to resist, for as long as you can, to let him know how much you enjoy his debauchery. 

You were forceful with him, fingers as rough as you dare allow yourself to be, and out of spite he seems to be determined to be the opposite. Thus his tongue and his lips are slow and featherlike against the twitching length of your bulge, licking and kissing until you can’t remember exactly how it ended curled against the side of his face, the tip coiled around the base of one of his horns. You understand what he meant by retaliation when his mouth finds your nook, no less wet than his when your fingers dug into it, but unlike him, you have enough sense of decency to be embarrassed by your eagerness. He works you slowly, with soft, reverent licks and loud, gut-wrenching slurping that makes the muscles of your thighs spasm every time. He takes his time, exploring and teasing and driving you up a wall because the pleasure keeps mounting but it never reaches that much needed breaking point. 

“Maybe I should leave you like this,” he taunts, using a hand to push your bulge off his head, though that doesn’t remove the sticky stains on his skin and his hair. “Would you like that?” 

You stare him down a moment, eyes invariably drawn to the faint blue tint staining his lips. Then you remember you still have a hand loosely wound into his hair, and you tighten your grip and pull him down again, just as you arch your hips to _grind_ against his mouth. He’s laughing, when his tongue dips into your nook, and when you fall apart under his touch. The world fades around the edges, everything but the pulsing in your groin worthless and unimportant. When color and shapes and reality fall back into place again, you’re struck by the horrifying realization that he’s covered in your slurry, and you’d gladly fuck him again, while he’s like that. Your bulge twitches at the thought, halfway back inside your sheath, and he laughs lowly, chin resting on your thigh. 

“You could just admit that I’m irresistible,” he says, absently wiping some of the globs of deep blue genetic material off his chin. Your bulge twitches again. “For all you like to pretend you’re an uptight stick in the mud, you’re just a kinky bitch, aren’t y—“ 

He melts into your arms when you kiss him, and you should find it revolting, both the kiss and his reaction to it, but it only makes you sated in a way that puts your anger to rest. He finds his way into your lap, smearing your clothes violet and blue, and you can’t find it in yourself to care. 

“You will not do that again,” you order quietly, when he’s found his place in your arms, and you’re straddling the line between shoving him into the ablution block or lying him on the floor and fucking him until he cries. 

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that,” he slurs the words, oddly smug despite the circumstances, “you fucking order me not to do that again all the time, and never really tell me what the hell that is.” 

Normally, you would sigh in exasperation and argue semantics; taking every chance he gives you to practice your deadpan. But normally the things you object to are flaws that, while you find unacceptable, don’t actually endanger his _life_. So you tilt up his chin with a soft nudge from your knuckles, until he’s meeting your gaze and you can see the taunting slowly drain away from his face. 

“You will never give Captor reason to threaten your life again,” you say, slowly and measuredly, to make sure he understands how much you mean each word. 

His eyes narrow, in spite of everything, because he’s a stubborn, reckless idiot and you _hate_ him for it more than you’ve ever hated anyone in your life. 

“Give me one good reason to do that,” he snaps, and you wonder how much of that is wounded pride at being ordered around and how much is just for the sake of making you mad. “We all need our fucking hobbies, Eq, annoying Sol is what—“ 

“Because you will not wear my sign anymore,” you interrupt the tirade, voice flat to conceal your emotions as best as you can, “if you don’t.” 

Eridan scoffs, purely on reflex you’re almost certain, but it still makes you uneasy. What if he doesn’t understand the implications you’re trying to make? What if he does and you’ve crossed a line you shouldn’t? 

“What the hell are you talking about? I’ve never worn your fucking—“ And then he stops, words fading into oppressive quiet, as he stares at you strangely. “ _Oh_ ,” he whispers, utterly vulnerable. And every hint of weakness you can see makes your entire body pulse with _hate_. “Now you really ought to fuck me properly,” he says, wry smile tugging at his lips. “At least one pail for the drones, before you come to your senses and take that back.” 

“I _hate_ you,” you snarl, pulling him flat against your body and pressing the words into his fin. 

You don’t say _you’re mine_ or _I won’t take it back_ or _I’m yours just as much_ , because you’re terrible with words and Eridan would just laugh, like he laughs at everything else you do. He pulls away and you let him go, even if you don’t want to, and try to mask the hollow in your chest. He doesn’t go far, though, shifting until he’s sitting on your thighs. 

“Pitch for you,” he says, quiet, and you can see his gills twitching nervously as his voice shakes with every word. “Midnight pitch, abyssal pitch, sworn in salt and gold.” 

You swallow hard. 

“Pitch for you,” you enunciate carefully, pleased when your voice doesn’t break. “Midnight pitch, cavernous pitch, sworn in blood and steel.” 

There’s an awkward moment, after the words are said, where you just look at each other and ponder the enormity of what you have done. And then he grins, the same despicable, infuriating, maddening grin that drives you up a wall, and you gather him into your arms again, because if you don’t hold him you might just _kill_ him. 

“Nepeta is going to flay me alive,” he snickers, even as he allows himself to be held, docile. 

“Oh, hardly,” you find yourself grinning, giving into the urge to be terrible because he _is_ terrible, and most importantly, _yours_. “She’s quite content with merely a pound of flesh and blood, these days.” 

“ _Equius!_ ” Eridan’s squawk of outrage convinces you, if anything, that you’ve done the right thing. 

You decide to focus on that, and not the sheer amount of chaos that will undoubtedly find its way to you, after this, because deep down, what you truly, desperately hate about Eridan Ampora is that he’s managed to convince you he’s _worth_ it. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Askblog for this verse.](http://requisitionforms.tumblr.com)


End file.
